Immaterial
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) It begins with a suggestive misunderstanding. Daniil Dankovsky/Artemy Burakh from Pathologic 2 PWP.


Burakh's footsteps are heavy, even when he is on the first floor and assessing the absence of miss Eva Yan. He could rock a building with his thunderous steps, and as Daniil's ears strain when he hears Burakh walk up the narrow, winding stairwell, the wood creaks with agreement.

Daniil doesn't turn to greet him, with his eye instead pressed against the aged microscope that has sat on one of the many desks Eva allowed him to move around for his studies for the last half week. Burakh has already become accustomed to the protocol of a Thanatica scientist when entertaining company. He walks up behind Daniil, which makes his shoulder tense — but all Artemy does is place a bound folder next to him.

Daniil ghosts his hand over it. "From?"

"Victor Kain. Assessing the stockpile of the Stone Yard."

"Good." Though it seems remarkably thin. He prays that Victor's handwriting happens to be small and concise, and there won't be a risk of searching for uninfected food and supplies. Daniil taps the folder with the tips of his fingers and glides it farther along the table, away from his workstation. "Thank you."

He knows that Artemy is looking at him, even with one eye shut and the other squinting at the small dish beneath the scope. Likely with disbelief, or even belligerent scorn — he's used to such a look from Burakh by now, a man who had spent the better part of his independent adulthood among men of the Capital still unaccustomed to the brisk conversational habits that came with it.

Daniil presses his jaw together. "You can sit, if you want."

"I'm fine here. Is that the heart?"

"Of course it is. Though, I cannot say it is much different than what you have extracted before." Daniil turns the lens. "I got excited, wondering why there was an abscess inside the right atrium. Likely a spread of an existing infection from the heart valves..."

"Any aberration is worth investigating," Artemy remarks, stepping from Daniil to his left. He doesn't know what Burakh is necessarily doing, but he doesn't hear the shuffling of papers or the scrape of drawers opening, so he has enough manners not to start rummaging around. "They looked kind of like rocks, anyway."

"Such evocative imagery. You should have studied literature."

"Yes. The son of Isidor Burakh, coming home as an _ahmadem_."

He doesn't think to ask what he means — it is unfamiliar, being uncertain of what is within the words spoken around him. He can route the evolution of other languages; there is little to trace in the tongue that Artemy speaks to him and others in. He lifts his head from the scope, deciding that he is straining far too close to the glass. "I drained what little blood remained. I'll send it with you when you leave."

Artemy makes some kind of grunt of acknowledgement. His hands are grazing over the desk, tethering on the fringe of respectful distance and damning curiosity. He seems to squint to follow Daniil's handwriting, which he expects. Nobody seems to focus on his words, only their erratic shape. Daniil drums his fingertips on the edge of the desk.

"Miss Yan has told me you're not a polite guest," he says, to make conversation.

"She thinks I'm going to hurt her," Artemy says. "Foolish to think. Perhaps she holds on to rumours like bad habits."

Daniil shakes his head and slips the glass from the microscope. "She's a young woman from the Capital. You could afford her more manners."

"Of course. You're a bastion of etiquette, Bachelor Dankovsky."

Daniil eyes him from the corner of his vision. Artemy leans a hip on the desk, with a sarcastic smile to match. From their time together, Daniil has discovered Artemy thinks himself quite funny at times. Only sometimes he hits his target. Tragic. With his eyes down, Daniil reaches for a clear container with several slots, and slips the specimen into its appropriately marked slot. He closes it with a click. Without lifting his head to return to his guest, Daniil rummages against the edge of the desk, looking for a pen. "Is it all well and good outside? You'd be quick to leave."

"I was curious about the results," Artemy says, with a shrug. "I figured you'd be working on the heart. Where's the rest of it?"

"Storage. You're not looking at it. It has a putrid smell."

Daniil finds what feels like a pen when Artemy's hand wanders too far. Quickly, with a speed that Burakh could not expect, Daniil turns and brandishes his pen-but-not-a-pen shortly beneath Artemy's chin — a short scalpel, rounded handle and blunted tip, threatens Artemy's irritating curiosity away from the glass container.

"Don't touch those," Daniil warns. He realizes he points his weapon towards Artemy rather quickly, but doesn't retreat. His intention is not to threaten — were it his pen, it'd be nothing more than a finger you wag at a misbehaving child. He's been looking for this thing, and quietly, between their moment, Daniil scolds himself for being irresponsible with his tools.

Artemy, understandably, does not have such context; he stares at the other man, reaching upward to match their height's difference with a blunted scalpel, mere inches from the tip of his chin. Too close, and he'd have nicked the skin. Artemy is taken aback by the gesture. It doesn't help Daniil's finger took to the shape, index pressing firmly on the handle. Burakh looks down the blade.

"Sorry," he says, with a laughably soft voice.

It is Daniil's turn to observe them. He narrows his eyes at the blade, and then at Artemy, and the way he cannot read his face beyond the initial stroke of shock. With a unexpected yet cautiously welcomed hum of consideration, Daniil turns his wrist and jerks the blade up, just an inch more. Artemy leads his head back, defensive. Daniil ends his observation with a smirk, and a short breath of amusement. He lowers the blade.

"Nervous, are you, Burakh?" he asks. "It isn't the first time I've held a blade to your neck."

"Unexpected, is all," Artemy replies, eyes still wide and hands out at his side, but with less tense shoulders. "Last time wasn't threatening."

"It _wasn't?_ I could have sworn..." Daniil looks at the blade. The bluntness comes from a bent blade. It wouldn't entertain either of them for long. "With such a reaction..."

"Enough," Artemy insists, with a wave of his hand, as if he could will the far-too-knowing Bachelor away. "I've made enough of a fool of myself."

"Calm down," Daniil replies. "There is far worse out there."

Artemy almost speaks, but he turns his head, and runs one of his hands against his mouth. Daniil inspects the blade before he brandishes it like a pen, held between his fingers, handle flush against his cheek as he observes Burakh. There's a part of him, somewhere, that questions to itself how to unravel men like Burakh. The rest of him thinks it's funny, that he's embarrassed. He doesn't have the familiarity of his own lair to hide away into, running into the back room after revealing his hand. Daniil tips his head, mindful of the bent tip of the scalpel, and leads himself forward with a step. His foot plants between Artemy's, but he is quick to step away from Daniil, seemingly already giving in, and allowing himself to be led.

"Take a couple steps back," Daniil commands, and — indeed — Artemy responds, his short steps matching Daniil's long ones. There is a handsome flush over Artemy's face, but he ruins it with a frown.

"Is your mind heading elsewhere, _erdem?"_ he asks.

"It depends on if you'll follow in turn," Daniil replies. He stops once Artemy's legs meet the edge of the bed, low to the floor. "I could always just give you another shave."

Remarkably, Artemy laughs, short and into the back of his hand. "I'll yield, if that's your angle."

"This stupid thing won't cut string, let alone skin," Daniil laments, disposing of it by the bedside. "Sit."

Artemy responds by lowering himself down. He doesn't seem to be prepared for how sudden his drop is once he is seated. He looks at the blade with a flick of his gaze. "Who said I'd let you cut me? You've already gotten in trouble for that."

"Oh, knock it off. You were practically daring me to last time." Daniil is quick to shrug off his coat. Quick enough that Artemy blinks twice, perhaps bewildered at the clinical nature. Daniil's coat finds its spot on the coat rack he had moved to his bedside, and Artemy's hands find themselves reaching for Daniil's knees, ghosting over the outside of his thighs.

With a quick press of his heel into his shoes, holding them down to step out of them effortlessly, Daniil steps to frame Artemy with a knee pressed down into his made bed. He can read Artemy's initial hesitation, but is thrilled when he looks up at him and leads his hands around his waist, caution slowly melting away.

Artemy is far too overdressed rather suddenly, but he is then occupied by Daniil lowering himself down to properly sit in his lap, comfortably taking his perch. It's the threat both of them were waiting for him to make before, now made real. Daniil rolls his hips, one arm around Artemy's neck and the other supporting himself on his knee. He rolls twice, and Artemy's hand tense around him.

It feels good for him, too. He remarks to himself that he should have undressed further, but he'd sooner make a spectacle of Artemy, first. Burakh's eyes fall shut and his head lolls back, reliving in the generosity of Dankovsky's groin rutting against the shape of his cock through his trousers. He is quick to harden, and even quicker to move, offering Daniil the same attention by moving his hands down his thighs and up his back.

Daniil leans forward, angling himself just enough to feel a hot jolt through his body, and resists his body's impulse to groan into Artemy's open mouth. He's excited, but the way Burakh's cock fills the space between Daniil's groin and his lap is delicious. He threatened him before with his body so close, daring him to try, but having the thick shape to rut against is a pleasure only Dankovsky can experience now.

He had expected the gesture of his hips to serve as a matchstick to their affair, but Daniil swears Artemy could satisfy himself with just grinding against his body. He grips Daniil firm and tight, meets their mouths and is eager to call it a kiss. Daniil cards his hand through Artemy's hair, the one initially supported on Artemy's knee now happy to rest on his shoulder, as Artemy keeps Daniil supported by his chest and with his arms. Daniil betrays himself with an overeager gasp into Artemy's mouth when Artemy pulls him down to rut into him.

It is by a miracle alone that he withdraws to force one of Artemy's legs up to lay down across the bedsheets. Artemy has to kick his boots off with all the grave and speed of a teenage boy caught tracking dirt into his mother's house. And with that same speed, his hands fumble with the clasps of his butcher's smock, never taking his eyes off the gracious shape that is Daniil.

Daniil wants to compliment him. Is this his first time? Does he want to flatter him? He takes Artemy's hands and helps him with a buckle, and after he pulls himself free and reveals the carved sculpture that is his chest, Daniil leads those steady surgeon's hands to his own dress shirt. "Take it off of me."

Artemy responds, diligent and attentive, slipping free each button and then reaching his hands inside. His fingers are long, and warm from the outside — Daniil is so accustomed to the comfortable chill of the Stillwater that he doesn't expect how he'd shudder at the contact, but grins and leans himself in to compliment Artemy's hands, cupping one breast and roaming down to his hip. He quite likes how Artemy feels him up. It's obviously personal. It's attentive and longing.

His shirt is untucked from his trousers and pulled off of Daniil's body, falling down his back as Artemy leads himself up and lavishes across Daniil's torso. The stubble of his growing beard scratches his skin, and Dankovsky finds himself stifling yet another sound at how good it feels. This time, Artemy's mouth ghosts over his breast, and Daniil impatiently pushes him closer by the back of his head, settling himself down once more to feel Burakh's cock. He's set to remind both of them.

Daniil realizes he wants to kiss him again, watching Artemy run his tongue around his areole. So he does, lowering his head to kiss into his hair, his still gloved hands scratching the back of his scalp. Artemy worships his body by pulling him closer, hands splayed up his back, humming and kissing across Daniil's skin.

He catches himself muttering _oh my god._ He pulls back on Artemy's head, who allows him the control. "Continue undressing me."

"Gladly." Artemy's hands are quick to pull Daniil's remaining clothing off, opening up his trousers and pulling them and his undergarments down. Daniil shuffles free, adjusting how he kneels over Burakh to show him his bare body. Artemy doesn't take long to put his hands back on to his skin, stroking his thumb against his hip.

Daniil moves, letting Artemy's hands slip, and works to free him from his trousers. Artemy's eyes alight and he moves to help, adjusting his body and writhing beneath Daniil, all to pull free his cock, firm and thick. Daniil blinks. He feels a foolish, immature want to put his mouth around him.

Instead, he finally pulls off his gloves, with almost a lament creeping into his thoughts, before running his tongue against the tips of his fingers. Artemy holds his thighs once more as Daniil runs his damp fingers against his hole, resisting a shudder at the wetness his body already offers. Artemy breathes harder than he does.

"If you'd like—" Artemy tried, but without Daniil knowing what he's to say, Daniil shakes his head.

"I'm fine." God, to have those fingers inside him, curling around every corner. Daniil tries to pace his thoughts, but he can feel them spiralling out of control. He runs his fingers against himself again, spreading himself as he shuffles his body down, and then takes Artemy into his hand. He's already hard, but he strokes him carefully, trying to slick his body with the same hand he has pressed against himself. This would be easier with oil. It would be a _lot_ easier.

But he does enjoy how Artemy stares at him, mouth wide and eyes blown in shock, like there's no other light at all but Daniil. How he sits propped up on his elbows and watches Daniil touch him, the way he strokes him off with a greater experience than Artemy might even been award of.

Impatient as ever, Dankovsky sits back up, holding Artemy's cock at its base. Artemy quickly holds his hips as Daniil presses his head against him, carefully lowering himself down. He feels split in the hottest way, closing his eyes and memorizing how Artemy looks on his back, sprawled out, amazed at who is having him.

Daniil almost loses his posture, feels a cramp in his leg from how they're split wide. But he paces himself, cautiously, mouth hanging as he welcomes Burakh far inside him, flush to the hip. He breathes a sigh of relief and swears to God once more.

Artemy's head falls back against the pillow. Daniil opens his eyes and admired how warm he feels and looks, hands gripping his thighs like Daniil might just disappear. Artemy's eyes are closed tight, so Daniil moves his body, effortlessly, adjusting to the intrusion.

Artemy says something in his local language. It sounds like a curse. Daniil leans forward, his hands supporting himself on Artemy's shoulders, and rocks himself upwards, then down. Artemy bends his knees and pulls on him, dragging Daniil the way he moves.

"Burakh," Daniil gasps, finding the pace he can handle rocking against him. Artemy offers himself in return, arching his lower body up into Daniil the same way.

Artemy looks as if he's in his trance, moving his broad hands to his hips and helping Daniil lift himself up to fuck Artemy harder. The strike of Artemy's cock far inside his cunt is enough to shatter Daniil, keeping him full in the most exhilarating way. Daniil grabs one of the hands Artemy keeps on him and pulls it upward, clumsily pressing the palm against his breasts. Artemy understands and squeezes him, pinching the skin just hard enough to make Daniil's head spin.

Artemy can't keep his mouth shut. He grunts; he mutters half nonsense and half prayer; he looks at Daniil and utters praise that barely meets his hearing. He rocks into his core, pushing against Daniil like he wants to stay buried inside.

Daniil reaches forward. He lays both his hands on Artemy's shoulder, and groans violently at the angle. Oh God. He could never get enough of this. God only knows what it could be like to lay bare before Burakh, probe and waiting like one of his bodies, spread out and waiting on an operating table.

Artemy leans his head back, neck bare. "Choke me," he pleads. "Can you..."

Daniil responds with two hands wrapped tight around Artemy's throat, pulling tight. He digs his fingers into his skin, holding for just a second before he relieves the pressure, threatening it again. Artemy stares at him with a hanging mouth, flushed red skin like rushing blood. He holds on to Daniil closer, harder, pulling his body down to move up into him. Daniil's arms bend.

"I can't— hold on if you keep us like this," Daniil manages to say, his own breathing pulled tight.

"Try," Artemy pleads again, and were Daniil not overwhelmed with the way he pushes up into him, he'd tease, or taunt, or maybe just smile. So he responds, with tight hands but an improper grip, and it seems to do a fine job. Artemy breathlessly heaves, pushing and thrusting up into Daniil's cunt. Daniil manages to push himself up while still allowing Artemy's arms to remain wrapped around him, and he watches with great joy at how Artemy's eyes fall back into his head.

He releases him. Artemy regains composure with a ragged breath. And in response, he rolls them to their side, enough of an angle for Daniil to lose his balance and lay half on his back, with Artemy pressing down inside him.

The newfound weight could kill him. His leg is held up by Artemy's hand, but he fills Daniil up by fucking down into him, like the rush of air and blood through his body awoke some kind of mechanical force. Daniil allows his head to fall back, spoiled by the sudden force of Burakh, praising him with shapeless words and shameless groans.

Artemy holds him open and continues to push inside, snapping his hips flush into Daniil with every rock of his body. He lays over him, supported by his arm, when he makes a strangled sound of Daniil's name, which he realizes is the way he announces his release — Artemy moves his hand from Daniil's lifted leg to the underside of his rear, pulling him in to hilt his cock and shatter what remains of Daniil's limits. He comes with a deep press into his body, mouth over his neck with the haphazard attempt at quieting his deep groan. Dankovsky's senses are suddenly flooded with the taste of September.

His shift in ability is enough to snap the last of Daniil's resolve, who clenches down on to Artemy's cock in the first pulse of his release. Like cresting a mountain top, Daniil's body revels in ecstatic relief, as he pushes Burakh on to his back and chases him to keep that pressure, of his cock bare against him, buried inside and used to make Daniil come. He lifts his body just enough to push back on to him, still with his wordless cries and urgent want. The waves continue to come but eventually slow down, leaving him with a tingling sensation every time his pulse strikes. Daniil shudders.

Burakh breathes like he's been overworked, deep and exhausted on Daniil's bed. When Dankovsky pulls his cock out of him, Artemy utters one last whimper. Daniil can feel the ache in his thighs from his extended position, but leans forward to rest his arms against Artemy. He notes that he allows his hands to graze his jawline.

"You..." Daniil tries, but finds he can't form the words.

Artemy reaches up and takes one of Daniil's hands, leading it against his throat once more. This time, Daniil strokes the stretch of skin with his thumb. He looks like he wants to compliment him, but resolved to watching Dankovsky with revelry.

Daniil moves his hands to stroke his jaw. He idly notes he will need to wash himself thoroughly. "Are you planning on sleeping there?" It's pleasantly critical.

Burakh laughs. "Only if you plan on preventing me from leaving, laying on my chest like this."

Daniil glances to his work. He can't compromise the task at hand for long. He looks back to Artemy, longing and with lingering affection. "Then we're in quite the predicament, aren't we?"

Artemy kisses his palm. Daniil notes, again, that his heart flutters.


End file.
